Music and Afternoon Tea
by star.spills
Summary: A line of lyric for each little oneshot, all different scenes of life in the Laytonverse. My take on the Random Lyrics Meme on dA.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Everyone's doing it, so why can't I? I got the idea from a meme in dA called the Random Lyrics Meme. You put your music player in shuffle and draw/sketch something related to a particular line sung in a specific time-like the regular music meme, but I decided to go with this because it has no time limit XD**_

_**Anyways, enjoy!**_

_**I do not own Professor Layton or any of its characters.  
**_

. . .

_Take the wind, let it blow away everything _

_(Olin and the Moon – Not In Love)_

. . .

Putting the telephone down, Flora managed not to speak the words she was dying to say for quite a while.

"Bye," her lips mumbled silently, knowing well that the line was dead. "I love you."

Laying her head against the plain white walls, the girl looked from the old glass window, on the other side a beautiful view of the London city she's lived in for five years now. The sunlight was making its way through, slightly blinding her brown eyes.

She turned away from the window and onto the empty, abandoned room she was in. There used to be bright blue wallpaper covering these walls, she remembered. The bed was always made, and certainly not dusty at all. Luke used to stay here-at least until two years ago.

The Professor and Luke had gone away to the docks when she was asleep, soundly in her room. When she asked why he didn't wake her up, he, of course, answered in such an affectionate and sincere tone that he didn't want to bother her.

When Flora spotted the professor's coat lying carelessly on the floor (a gentleman should _never_ make a mess), she picked it up and could faintly smell tears lingering on its dark fabric.

Sighing, she let herself fall onto the small bed, its sheets still unchanged. Her arms were outstretched, making her silhouette look not unlike a starfish, but not quite exactly the same. The room had seen better days-a row of odd things had found their way inside, and Flora feared that the room is going to be used as (another) storage closet to keep the professor's collection.

She had found herself thinking this again and again, but she's just going to repeat it to herself (again) for the umpteenth time: _things aren't the same without Luke around_.

Unlike what some people may think, the life of Hershel Layton _isn't_ an action movie-esque novel filled with adventures and ridiculous explanations for things that would otherwise belong to a fantasy story.

Instead, it was… ordinary. Yes, that's the word. He'd wake up, take a shower, read the morning newspaper while eating the breakfast he made for himself (a gentleman should _never _make someone else do something he could do himself), say goodbye to his adopted daughter-that would be her, and go out through the same door he came back in. He was a punctual man, always going out to work and coming home at the same time each day (except when he doesn't, which he always informs by a phone call first).

Flora's not complaining. Why would she? Her life was a nice one, much better than the days she spent alone in the secluded little village of St. Mystere, surrounded by "people" who weren't even real. They didn't ever realize that they were merely programmed to be her company, and being the few to know the truth was burdening for her.

But again, she wishes that Luke was around to fill the house with laughter. The professor is alright, but he's been spending his time buried in archaeology work lately. She misses the days when the boy would run around congratulating himself after solving a particularly hard puzzle-when he would translate what the rabbits said as they munched sliced carrots together-when he did all those little things that made her smile.

The cheerful sunlight had been replaced with a gust of wind, blowing in dry leaves through the open window in a corner. The wind twirled the browned leaves playfully, as though they were puppets in a little theatre.

She remembered when Luke saved up his money to buy her a doll for her 14th birthday. Despite her appearance, Flora had decidedly outgrown those childish toys-but to be polite, she said thank you and kept it untouched in her room, collecting dust all alone.

She misses him.

. . .

Brushing the fallen leaves from her hair, Flora looked at Luke, who was busying himself with his second plate of food. Just being around him is enough to make her happy—

—right?

Yes-it was good enough for her to just stay dear friends. A real relationship is too much for both of them to handle, of course. It's much too dangerous for them to cross the bridge.

"Flora?" Luke called her name out of the blue, sidetracking Flora from her little train of thought.

"Yes?" she smiled weakly, briefly glancing on the now empty three plates sitting on the table.

"I-I…" he hesitated for a little bit, "I think we should get back. It's… getting late." He finished nervously, quickly getting up as if he was in a hurry to get back to his apartment (even though tomorrow was a Sunday).

Flora could sense that he was lying, but foolishly decided to just reply with a smile and a nod. "Right. Let's go." She took his hand (the closest thing to physical contact they had besides the occasional hugging) as they stepped out of the restaurant and into Luke's car. He finally saved enough money for it, and Flora couldn't help but chuckle remembering how happy he was.

Her eyes spotted the sight of a pile of dry leaves being blown away by a strong gust of wind.

If only some things in life are that easy to get rid of.

Arriving on the doorstep of the professor's house, Flora got out and Luke watched as she opened the door and disappeared inside the house.

Driving out into the night, Luke had yet again managed not to speak the words he had wanted to say for quite a while.

"Bye," his lips mumbled silently, knowing well that she couldn't hear him anymore. "I love you."

. . .

_**A/N: So, do you like it? Hate it? I enjoyed writing this, though I feel sorry for Luke and Flora. I think it's kind of ironic that, like the professor, Luke was too afraid to tell someone how he feels about her. I guess it's kind of logical that it would take a while for them to finally move out of the dreaded "friend zone" since they're like brothers and sisters to an extent.**_

_**Review, and (constructive) critiques are encouraged.**_

_**-Lua**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Yay, a new chapter! **__**This chapter is Clive-centric, so MAJOR spoilers for the Unwound Future.**_ I'll just reply to some reviews now.

_**Roma Vane: Thank you! I'm not really intending to do requests, but I guess since you asked I'll do it :) What pairing would you like me to do?  
**__**  
**_

_**I do not own Professor Layton, nor any of its characters.  
**_

. . .

_Oh God, come quickly_

_The execution of all things_

_(Rilo Kiley, The Execution of All Things)_

_._. . .

Clive Dove was everything a normal, proper young man could be. He wore the right clothes for the right occasions; a polite disposition, a friendly amused smile on his face on casual days, and his looks certainly did help to sharpen up that image.

After graduating middle school, the boy had decided to apply as a part-time reporter-because it sounded interesting, he explained to Constance when she asked. His stepmother had what they would put as "connections", so to speak, and he was accepted quickly enough after sending in his forms to the company. He remembered how his less-than-friendly colleagues would point and laugh behind his back as he typed up his reports for the day on the half-broken computer the company had provided him. They said things that mostly had much to do with his adopted family, not himself in general-but either way, he always ignored it as his fingers danced around the keyboard with a faulty "S" key.

There was one time when a man named Jim, just two years his senior introduced himself to Clive. Clive isn't exactly the type of person who'd socialize very often-what was the point of that, anyway? But still, he had to be polite. And so he nodded with a smile when Jim offered to have lunch with his friends during an off-day tomorrow-which happened to coincide with the day his school had a teacher's conference, giving much of the student body happiness.

Of course, he knew well that it was clearly written on his typed-up schedule that the particular off-day was supposed to be filled with research. He'd do it all day long, and the subject to gather information on today was Bill Hawks and his involvement with the largely uncovered explosion of the so-called "time machine" that killed his biological parents and eight others. It should be hard to look for, considering the 42-year-old man's sheer amount of control in many things that he might not have control in altogether.

"Great. See you later, Clive." Jim laughed for no reason, giving a friendly pat on Clive's brown-haired head. He then got up from his chair, to talk and trade jokes about no subject in particular with several of the less-than-friendly colleagues that sat behind him during work.

Clive was left sitting quietly on the plastic chair that adorned the workplace, muttering about rearranging his schedules. This would mean that he would have to stay up later than usual tonight-which would inevitably lead to waking up late for school. Ah, screw that. He'll just write up a sick letter and tell Constance to put her signature on it. That old woman never had good eyesight even with her glasses on.

. . .

Jim never told him that he would bring his "friends" to their little lunch meeting. Clive had never felt so much like a fish out of water-and surprisingly for him, it felt quite good and beneficial. He was glad he brought his laptop with him, and was pretty optimistic in the powers that the World Wide Web _could_ give him with just a simple Google search with three words: Bill Hawkes explosion.

If it could be, Clive would want those three words to be taken literal by life. There was a clear possibility that if it _did_ happen the way he had thought in his head to Hawkes, then he didn't have to do this altogether. But then again, his (imaginary) death would likely still lead him to expose his crimes to the world-so there really is no way to prevent what he was doing except to go back in time and destroy the damned time machine before it could even be made-which is unlikely to happen as of now.

Noticing Clive's disinterest in their conversations, Jim predictably asked what he was doing. With another bright smile, Clive replied quickly with an excuse that he was typing up a recent report about an "overseas case a friend of his was investigating". It wasn't exactly the best getaway, but Jim and his friends, being fools, believed him despite the fact that a man named Wallace Harrington and his wife Vera were just names he made up on the spot and not friends of his.

Harold, who was never the kind who sugarcoats, quipped about how much of a workaholic he was-and the fact that Constance was wealthy only added to the question why Clive didn't wait until after his graduation from Harvard to work, and why he isn't lounging around in his mansion house right now.

Laughing bitterly, Clive set his attention on the old news article on the laptop screen, not bothering to explain in a ridiculously boring speech with difficult words taken out of thesaurus. Mostly because they were idiots who won't listen to what he has to say, and because the whole truth to his story would need a while to tell-and then they'd just point and laugh like always.

. . .

It had been several days after Constance's death of a heart attack in her home. Clive was at school when it happened-the secretary just came rushing into the classroom and asked Clive to answer a call directed to him (because he didn't bring a cellphone that day). The woman on the other line, Constance's devoted maid, said in-between sobs the sad news.

Clive nearly dropped the phone.

He almost wanted to laugh at God at this point.

The will was soon read, and on the handwritten piece of paper Ms. Constance Dove wrote that her entire, massive amount of wealth and estate were to be passed onto her adopted-and only-son, Clive Dove. As expected, people started to exchange soft whispers, which turned into constant conversations, and then into practically the only thing adults talk about.

Clive resigned from his job as a reporter just a week afterwards to "focus on other things".

Namely, his plan with Dimitri Allen.

It all seemed to begin at the precise time "Dr. Stahgun"'s time machine exploded in a manner both of them knew-presumably killing him and Hawkes, but leaving no traces of their bodies behind to truly prove them dead. But it actually went back a lot further than that.

The information and newspaper clippings he had gathered and researched were forming into a pile. He interrogated people related to the famous Hershel Layton using a copy of his reporter ID card, while working with Allen to create an underground replica of London to fool the civilians and scientists they kidnapped into believing they were trapped in the future-all to avenge their beloved's deaths and to expose what the Prime Minister had went to great lengths to hide. He even bribed Don Paolo into posing as people Layton knew, as Clive himself pretended to be Future Luke and Allen as Future Layton.

They created the illusion that in the Future London, Hershel Layton had become a devil who ruled the city with an iron fist. Hiring The Family was easy enough to do-Clive just waved money in front of the more tough-looking people they kidnapped. Allen's intention was to make the scientists believe that without the time machine, they can't go home-away from The Family's assault and The Devil in the top hat.

Now, Clive was impressed with Allen's plan.

But he wanted to do more.

He wanted to stop this from ever happening again, ever.

. . .

"Mr. Dove?" A voice called, interrupting Clive's thoughts.

"Ah, is that you, Horace? Come in, the door's not locked." There was no door to begin with, as if to mock him.

Horace came in nervously, his legs shaking a little. "T-the third stage of the machine is done, Sir."

Clive smiled, looking from atop the observatory. "I'll go check on it later. Thank you for the information." His polite, well-spoken words only succeeded to drive the man away in fear.

He had sent the letter just moments ago, and now he was waiting.

For the series of events to happen like clockwork, one thing leading up to another.

. . .

_**A/N: I'm not too pleased with this one... reviews and critiques are greatly appreciated. Anyways, I'm pretty sure there are a couple continuity mistakes in this story, so point them out so I can remember it for next time. I love the song and Rilo Kiley though.**__**  
**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Written for Roma Vane. Sorry if you don't like it (it's actually more friendship than shippy, unfortunately). This is set just a few weeks after Curious Village, by the way – so spoilers. And Emmy doesn't know about the whole thing with Flora and St. Mystere since Layton never released the events of Curious Village to the press (remember that?).**_

_**I do not own Professor Layton or any of its characters.**_

. . .

_Why do puzzles suddenly appear_

_Every time you are near?_

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_

_(The Carpenters, Close to You)_

. . .

Emmy Altava had always admired Layton in many ways. He was smart, dressed formally at all times, and the fact that he saved her - a complete stranger at that time - from getting arrested the first time they met certainly added to that (and yes, he didn't exactly recognize her when they first met, but still – he saved her arse). She enjoyed being his assistant, solving puzzles and mysteries together with him and Luke...

...But only as _friends_.

That reason is why it should _theoretically_ be easy for her to drop him a call. After all, it's the polite thing to do, isn't it? She'll just ask him about how he was doing, the weather - all those manner of things people talk about day to day. Besides, she missed him. And yet, it wasn't. She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but just picking up the phone makes her nervous about all sorts of things. It felt odd and rather foreign - which only further confuses her.

"Okay, Emma. Let's do this." She encouraged herself, her fingers already closing in to the phone set on top of the table. It's as though the phone was mocking her, but perhaps that was just her imagination playing tricks on her head.

And then, it rang out of the blue.

Emmy nearly jumped at the loud noise, frozen for several second before realizing that she had left the phone ringing. Quickly, she picked it up, hoping that whoever was on the other line didn't notice her lateness in replying. "Hello?" she said, her voice slightly rushed.

"Emmy? It's me, Hershel Layton."

Nearly jumping for the second time, Emmy dropped the phone, managing to grip it before it hit the bedroom's floor. "Oh? Hello, Professor!" she tried to keep her cheerful disposition in her voice, glad that the professor wasn't able to see her in person right now.

"Hello to you as well." Always polite even in informal conversations, Emmy thought. "I was just calling to… ask you how you were doing, yes."

Emmy felt a bit of relief that he seemed to be every bit as nervous as she currently was. "I'm doing great! What about you, Professor?"

"I'm every bit as well as you are." Layton chuckled at the end of his words. "I heard that you landed a job as an investigator?"

"Well, yes." Emmy said, mildly surprised. "How did you know that?"

"I've seen your name in several newspaper headlines, and I'm very pleased to know about your recent accomplishments." Layton congratulated, sending Emmy a slight blush on her cheeks.

"Hey, I learned a lot of things from our adventures, so I owe you _some_ credit." Emmy laughed. "And… thanks. It means a lot coming from you."

"Your welcome, I suppose." Layton mumbled, a little uncertain whether or not he should accept his self-proclaimed assistant's humble disclaimer.

"Oh, how's Luke? He's still living with you as an apprentice, isn't he?" Emmy changed the subject abruptly, suddenly remembering about the boy that always followed everywhere the professor went. Of course, she can't judge him for that because she did the same.

"Luke? He's outside, playing with Flora." Layton glanced outside his room's window as he said that, seeing the two happily petting a stray cat. He noted to remind them to wash their hands afterwards.

"Flora?" Emmy didn't recognize that name at all. "Who is she, Luke's girlfriend? So I guess he and Arianna _were_ just friends after all…"

"No, no no. You've got it all wrong. Flora's my... stepdaughter, so to speak." Layton corrected, at that point made another note to deal with the custody paperwork (or something or other) when he has the time.

"Wait, _what_? How did _that_ happen?" Emmy almost choked, as she never thought the professor as a type to settle down with a widow – she thought that having Luke around was enough. "Who's the lucky lady?" She teased, though she was unsure if it was the latter or a serious question.

"There's no lady!" Layton interjected, thinking about why Emmy would ask such a question. "I was chosen to become Flora's guardian by his father, Augustus Reinhold, who had died just several weeks ago."

Emmy nodded. "Alright then. But I suspect something more than that."

"You want me to explain the whole thing _on the phone_, or just the short story?" Layton hoped that she picked the latter.

"For your phone bill's sake, just tell me the short story please." Emmy laughed briefly, then perked up her ears to listen what he has to say.

Layton then told Emmy the summation of what they did during their visit to the curious village of St. Mystere – and how after rescuing Flora from the tower, the whole thing was apparently set up as a test to find a suitable guardian for her.

"Can't believe you barely avoided being crushed by a ferris wheel." Emmy muttered. "Ah, who am I kidding? You're _the_ Professor Layton, after all! Dangers – and puzzles – always follow you around. And I think I've seen that traveler guy you're talking about wandering around… he said he wanted to find America or something. I thought Colombus already did that."

"I can't say that I _enjoyed_ being put to those situations, though. Unlike _some_ people I know…" Layton snickered lightly. "That's enough about me – _I_ was the one who called to ask about you."

Emmy saw this as an opportunity to meet up with Layton again – and on impulse, asked him on a date (a platonic one, of course, she assured herself). "Actually, why don't we talk a bit more during dinner at yours tomorrow night? So I could see Flora, too."

A few seconds of awkward silence on the other end.

"Why not?" Layton finally concluded, and those two words were all it took to make Emmy smile.

"Oh, thank you! I was afraid that you had something to do. And don't worry, I'll cook!" Emmy was literally jumping of joy (not surprise, as it nearly happened earlier) at this moment. "Bye, Professor!" she hung up before Layton could say anything inbetween her quick sentences.

Calming down, Emmy sat on the bed and reminded herself what was important. Firstly, she likes the professor as a friend, and no more than that (despite the nagging voice in her head that said otherwise). Second, she should start preparing her recipe and ingredients soon. And lastly, she'll try not to act like a lovestruck idiot around her "date"—

—she should really start by working on that.

. . .

**Whew! This is surprisingly fun to write. Review?**


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